One of the hardest parts of being a priest is creating a community in which we can talk about the Gospel of Jesus Christ, hold widely varying political opinions, and yet still gather at the Eucharistic Table – elbow to elbow, as the imperfect, but beloved body of Christ, determined to stay in community. I say that the work is difficult because I have seen how fragile this work really can be. During my priestly formation at seminary, congregations and Dioceses were walking away from that common table over the issue of human sexuality. Although I was proud of what the Episcopal Church did at the time, I also deeply mourned the loss of diversity at the Table – the creation of a more homogenous Church than a Church who was devoted to staying in the tension while honoring the Gospel.

Because of my high value of the uniting force of the Eucharistic Table, my priesthood has taken a slightly different shape than I might have imagined in my early twenties. If you had asked me then about the primary role of the priest, I might have argued the role of prophet – decrying injustice and leading the people of faith to a more just world. But as I aged, and as I served diverse parishes, I began to see the role of prophet is one of many roles, one that needs to be used judiciously so as not to alienate parishioners and create an exclusive community of like-minded people. And so, my priesthood has been marked with great caution around politics. While many of my colleagues will beat the drum for justice, I find myself trying to carefully walk with my diverse congregations as we discern together how to interpret politics in light of the Gospel – not in light of Democrats or Republicans, but in light of the witness of Jesus Christ. That doesn’t mean I don’t have strong political opinions; it just means that I try to take focus off the politician or political issue of the moment and try to create disciples who can see and follow Christ.

That being said, this past week, the issue of what is happening to families seeking asylum on our southern border, and the separation of children from parents as a punitive, purportedly deterring action has shifted my normal practice – not because I changed my mind about politics and the Church, but because two agents of our government utilized Holy Scripture to justify those actions. Here’s the thing: if this were just another issue where we are divided about policy, where we had a debate about the extents to which we value national security over other values, I would have happily encouraged our parishioners to be faithful Christians in dialogue. But when Attorney General Jeff Sessions invoked Holy Scripture to justify separating children from parents, he stepped into my area of authority, leaving me no other option but to speak.

Now I could layout a Biblical defense against the small portion of Romans 13 that Attorney General Sessions quoted, giving you the context of the chapter, giving you the verses immediately following what he quoted as a counter to his argument. I could quote to you chapter and verse for countless other scripture lessons that tell us to love one another, respect the dignity of other human beings, care for the outcast and alien, tend the poor, and honor children. I could also tell you about how that same bit of scripture was used to justify slavery, Nazis, or apartheid in South Africa. But the problem with a scripture quoting war is that no one wins. What is more important is what we know of the canon of Scripture: that our God is a God of love, that Jesus walked the earth showing us how to be agents of love, healing, and grace, and that the Holy Spirit works through us today to keep spreading that love.

Knowing what I know about the Good News of God in Christ, in my baptismal identity as one who seeks and serves Christ in all persons, respecting the dignity of every human being, I cannot stand idly by or be silent when the Holy Scriptures of Christians are being used to justify political actions that are antithetical to our Christian identity. As a priest, I invite you this week, especially when a governmental leader is invoking our faith, to reflect on how the Gospel of Christ is informing your view on this issue. Not as a Republican and not as a Democrat, but as a follower of Christ. Fortunately, prominent politicians on both sides of the aisle seem to be coming to agreement on this issue – a rarity these days – but also an example to Episcopalians who hold a high view of coming to the Eucharistic Table across our differences. I am not saying we need to agree on this – in fact, I suspect we will not. What I am asking is that you live into your identity as a disciple of Christ, as an agent of love, and then respond in conversation, in political advocacy, and in worship as one holding in tension both our American and Christian identities. I support you in this difficult, hard work. I love you as you struggle. I welcome you to the Eucharistic Table.

As we heard our psalm today, you may have thought the psalm sounded familiar. And you would be right. Just under five weeks ago, we said this exact same psalm on Ash Wednesday. After we were invited into a holy Lent – one of fasting, self-examination, and repentance, and ashes were spread across our foreheads, we said this psalm. “Have mercy on me, O God…For I know my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me…[I have] done evil in your sight…” we confessed. We begged God to create in us a clean heart and renew a right spirit within us. I wonder how saying these words again, just several weeks later, feels today. Perhaps after weeks of following your Lenten discipline, you feel closer to that clean heart and renewed spirit. Maybe you are making your way out of Lent and the repetition of Psalm 51 feels unnecessary because you have completed your repentance work. But maybe Psalm 51 feels unattainable, because your sinfulness feels like something you cannot shake.

If you are in the latter category, and if, in fact, you are beginning to wonder if you will ever master this sinfulness thing, take heart. I actually say verse eleven of this psalm every time I celebrate the Eucharist. Week in and week out, whether we are in Lent, Eastertide, or Ordinary time, even after I have prayed and confessed with the community, before I approach the altar to celebrate holy communion, I say these same words, “Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.” Whether in a season of penitence or not, whether I have already celebrated Eucharist two times earlier in the morning, I still pray Psalm 51.11, longing for the God of mercy and hesed, or loving-kindness, to create in me a clean heart.

That is why I think the beginning of our liturgy was so hard today. As part of the penitential order, we prayed the decalogue, or the ten commandments. With each commandment, we responded, “Amen. Lord have mercy.” Reading the decalogue in scripture, as we did just a few weeks ago in Lent is a bit different – somehow having them in paragraph form makes them more palatable – with only certain commandments jumping out at us as areas of improvement. But praying them is more difficult. With each commandment receiving a closing petition, the idea is hammered home – we struggle with every last one of these commandments. Now I can imagine what you are thinking – but I have never murdered. While that may be true, the poor and the oppressed die every day because no one cares enough to change policy or ensure each person gets help. Or maybe you are muttering that you have never put any gods before our God. But we commit idolatry every day when we believe money or even we ourselves are in control instead of our God. Each petition we pray in the decalogue reminds of how deep and diverse our sinfulness is.

But here’s the funny thing about those commandments – the Israelites could not follow them either. The Israelites had been rescued from slavery and protected relentlessly. Once the Israelites were finally in safety and heading to the Promised Land, God created a new covenant with the people. God sent Moses up the mountaintop and had Moses write the law on tablets – the law that would guide the people into faithful, covenantal living. But before Moses could even get down the mountain and deliver the covenant to the people, they had already created the golden calf – an idol in the place of God. They people would struggle so much with the ten commandments that a whole generation of God’s covenantal people would not be allowed into the Promised Land – not even Moses himself. Although God intended for the decalogue to shape the lives of the people and to create the boundaries for the covenant, and although none of the petitions are all that unreasonable, yet still the people would break their covenant with God time and again.

We are just like our ancestors. I was just retelling a parishioner this week about my Lenten discipline in college. You see, in college I picked up a bit of a potty mouth. It got so bad that my freshman year, I decided to charge myself a quarter for every curse word I uttered, with the plan of giving the proceeds to church on Easter. By the end of week two in Lent, I had to reduce the fee to a nickel because I could not afford the fee! And the funny thing was that every year in college was the same. “This year! This year I will master my filthy mouth.” And every year I would have to reduce the fees. We are creatures of habit, masters of repeated sinfulness, just like our ancestors.

That is why reading Jeremiah is so powerful today. Jeremiah writes in a time of desperation for the people of God. The Babylonians have razed the temple and carried King Zedekiah off in chains. Effectively, the Babylonians have “destroyed the twin symbols of God’s covenantal fidelity.”[i] Sometimes we talk about the exile so much that I think we forget the heart-wrenching experience of exile. Being taken from homes and forced to live in a foreign land is certainly awful enough. But the things that were taken – the land of promise, the temple for God’s dwelling, the king offered for comfort to God’s people – are all taken, leaving not just lives in ruin, but faith in question. But today, in the midst of the physical, emotional, and spiritual devastation, Jeremiah’s reading says God will make a new covenant. God knows the people cannot stop breaking the old covenant, and so God promises to “forgive their iniquity and remember their sin no more.” Instead of making the people responsible for the maintenance of the covenant, God goes a step further and writes the law in their hearts, embodies God’s way within the people.

The words of Jeremiah in the section called “the Book of Comfort,”[ii] and this new covenant by God, show a God whose abundance knows no limits. God offers this new covenant to a people who surely do not deserve another covenant. God has offered prophets and sages, has called the people to repentance, has threatened and cajoled, and yet still the people could not keep the basic tenants of the covenant established in those ten commandments. But instead of abandoning the people to exile, God offers reconciliation and restoration yet again. And because God knows we have no power in ourselves to help ourselves, God basically says, “Here. Let me help you. Let me write these laws in your hearts so that you do not have to achieve your way into favor with me, but you will simply live faithfully, living the covenant with your bodies and minds.” And when even that does not seem to work, God sends God’s only son. God never gives up on us or our relationship with God. Even all these years after Christ’s resurrection, God is still finding new ways to make our covenant work.

I have had parishioners attend two services in one day – maybe they were a speaker at two services or maybe they sang in two different choirs. Invariably, one of these multi-service attendees will ask me, “Should I take communion again? I shouldn’t, right?” I always chuckle because I have to remind them that I take communion three times every Sunday – sometimes four or five if I take communion to someone homebound on a Sunday. I confess all those times, I pray all those times, I say those words of Psalm 51 all those times, “Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.” Lent is the same way – sometimes we are confessing multiple times in one day. Sometimes we need to say the decalogue, and we need to confess our sins, and we need to hear Psalm 51. And before we go to bed, we may need to confess to God again. We do all those things with confidence because our God is a god of mercy, hesed, and restoration, always looking for ways to renew God’s covenant with us. God’s persistence with us is what inspires our work this Lent. So yes, create in us clean hearts, O God, and renew a right spirit within us – every week, every day, every hour. Amen.

This weekend, I made a family recipe from my husband’s grandfather. Though Grandpa Gray is no longer with us, somehow, making this recipe for the first time in a long while flooded me with all kinds of memories. You see, Italian Mac was the family’s favorite dish – the ultimate comfort food. One year, I finally asked for the recipe and stayed with Grandpa Gray in the kitchen while he made it. Now, as I look at the words of the recipe, I can hear his beautiful voice in the words. As I crush the herbs as he instructed, I can imagine his worn hands doing the same thing. As our house fills with the aromas of Italian Mac and garlic bread, I can remember the smell of his house. As I sip the red wine that the recipe suggests I pair with the meal, I can recall the comforting sound of his laughter.

Food has a special power. Whenever I have been on mission trips, food has created intimate connection. In Honduras, we all took turns helping the women of the village cook for our team. After ten minutes of attempting to grind corn, we were all laughing at how much stronger the women were than the men who were lifting bricks to build the church. On my second visit to Costa Rica, I wanted to learn how to make the beans and rice we ate regularly. The women were surprised that I was willing to get up early with them and learn. After that morning, our relationship shifted. In Myanmar, giggles and laughter ensued as we tried new foods and our hosts appreciated our boldness.

The same is true of the Eucharist. I have been in churches that use grape juice and a small cube of pasty, crunchy “bread.” I remember the splendor of the sweet Hawaiian bread used at another church. I remember the first time I had real wine at communion, and the way that it burned down my throat, lighting a new fire in me. Whether baked bread, bland wafers, or store-purchased pita bread, each texture and flavor imprints in my mind the church, the community, the spiritual place where I was at the time. Even this weekend, at my goddaughter’s baptism, my own daughter commented on the “yucky” communion bread they had. I would have just said it was dense, but that dense texture will linger in my mind as my reminder of our celebration.

Holy Eucharist is the comfort food of Church. That is why I love being a part of a sacramental church that has Eucharist every Sunday. But the Church offers other comfort foods as well. The pancakes we eat every Shrove Tuesday remind me of years of fellowship and laughter – with communities all over the East Coast. The Brunswick Stew of the Fall Festival at Hickory Neck will always remind me of warmth and community. There are those dishes at every potluck that you search for, knowing the comfort it will bring. And of course, there is the Sunday morning coffee – a staple of hospitality and grace. If you have been missing a sense of community and comfort, I hope you will make your way to Church this week and join us in the feast that not only comforts us, but also strengthens us for the journey. God has given us great work to do – but God has also given us the sustenance we need for the road ahead.

As I was writing the sermon for tonight, I realized that maybe we have structured our evening all wrong. We actually started off on the right foot. We gathered over a common meal, assembled by dishes from each of our homes (or from the deli you swung by on the way here). Our meal was a feast made by many hands, and completely organic – shared out of the varying gifts we bring. In fact, we even did things in a way that was more in line with what Paul wanted for the Corinthians. The passage that we read tonight from First Corinthians is mostly just the familiar text that includes Jesus’ institution of Holy Eucharist. But in the verses before what we read tonight, Paul admonishes the Corinthians. Instead of a true Eucharistic meal, where bread and wine are shared equally and intentionally, the Corinthians have gotten into the habit of having communal meals, but everyone fends for themselves. In other words, their meal would be like if Kathleen had made a homemade casserole, Kim had grabbed Chinese takeout for her and the kids, Lois had brought the finest filet mignon with a glass of wine from a local fine dining establishment, and I showed up empty-handed. Except in Corinth, you eat what you bring. If you show up empty-handed, you leave hungry. Unlike the Corinthians, at least we got that part right tonight.

But if I had been thinking, instead of coming up here to our beautiful worship space, we would have stayed downstairs. Mid-meal, I would have taken off my jacket, rummaged around for a towel and bowl from our kitchen, and started washing your feet. As I moved from table to table, we would have talked about what I was doing, and why Jesus did the same for his disciples. You see, tonight, we hear the story that is only found in John’s gospel about how Jesus teaches the disciples to love and serve one another and their neighbors. In order to love, which is going to be their primary mission, they will need to be able to get down on the floor among the crumbs and the remains of the festivities, and tenderly care for one another.

And further, had we been feeling really countercultural, I would have grabbed a loaf of bread that someone got at Stop-N-Shop, and some wine sitting on the beverage table, and we would have talked about how on the night before Jesus is betrayed, he breaks bread with his friends, telling them that the bread is his body, and the wine is his blood – given for them. We would have passed the loaf around, tearing the bread into bite-sized pieces, dropping blessed crumbs everywhere, and looking into each other’s eyes as we pass the bread, reminding each other that this is the body and blood of our Lord.

If I had been thinking, that is what we could have done tonight – because that is what happens on this last night for Jesus: a downhome, shared, messy meal, with uncomfortable, intimate moments, and a meal that does not necessarily feed our bellies but feeds our souls. But Jesus’ words and experiences that night are not just for the disciples. His words are words for the future. He knows his death is coming. In the face of death, he longs to remind the disciples what they will need to do after his death. This last night is all about Jesus’ final instructions to the disciples.

That is why we call this day Maundy Thursday. Maundy comes from the Latin word for mandate. On this night we remember Jesus’ mandate to love one another as he has loved us.[i] We remember Jesus’ mandate to serve. And we remember Jesus’ mandate to eat together, feasting on the holy meal. Where we remember that mandate does not actually matter – whether we remember among the old stones of a Cathedral, in the cozy, board and batten sanctuary of St. Margaret’s, or in the bustling, laughter-filled, sometimes messy Undercroft. The location matters much less than the intentionality with which we listen to Jesus’ words.

Tonight I invite you walk through the last night of Jesus experiencing the tangibility of this night: a meal with fellow believers, the washing of feet, Holy Communion, and the stripping of the altar as we head into the night watch. But I also invite you to remember Jesus’ final mandate: to love as he has loved us, to serve others, and to sustain our work through the holy meal. The actions of this night are important, but even more important is the way that this night changes us tomorrow. Amen.

Every once in a while, I am reminded of how bizarre our faith can sound to others. When a child asks a seemingly basic question, or when a non-believing stranger asks me a question that is not easy to explain, I can imagine how strange my responses sound. But having been raised in the faith, the strangeness never bothered me. And if I really was not sure about something, I found myself comfortable with the explanation, “It’s a mystery.”

But lately, I have been barraged by incidents where “It’s a mystery,” just does not cut it! The first instance was the First Holy Communion class I did with David and William a few weeks ago. David and William actually went pretty easy on me. But those classes are always challenging because they do not allow you to simply experience Holy Eucharist – I have to explain Holy Eucharist: from why we process and reverence an instrument of death (the cross had the same purpose as our modern-day electric chair); to what to do when we don’t necessarily believe everything in the Nicene Creed; to why the priest holds out her hands during the Eucharistic prayer. The second instance of “It’s a mystery,” not cutting it was in Bible Study class last week. The group is reading John and John’s rather gory discussion of eating flesh and drinking blood. The group wanted to know what Episcopalians believe about what happens to the bread and wine when the priest consecrates the elements – and how that differs from what other denominations believe. I am fairly certain that if I had told the group that what happens in Eucharist is a mystery, they would not have let me off the hook so easily. The final instance of “It’s a mystery,” not cutting it has been in reading the book, The Year of Living Biblically. In this past week’s assignment, our author, A.J. Jacobs finally makes his way into the New Testament. As an agnostic Jew, the author discusses his fears about trying to live the Bible literally if he cannot get behind the idea of Jesus as the Messiah and the idea of Jesus being both human and divine. As a cynical New Yorker who confesses he has no desire to convert, I am sure my “It’s a mystery,” explanation would get him nowhere.

The challenges of our faith are not limited to worship, Eucharist, and Jesus’ divinity. Today we celebrate yet another bizarre element of our faith – Christ the King Sunday. On this last Sunday of Pentecost, before we enter into the season of Advent, we declare Christ as our King. On the surface, that is not a bizarre claim, I realize. Many communities have kings, and the way we venerate Christ is not unlike the way many kingdoms venerate their kings. Given the familiarity of that image, we might imagine that Christ the King Sunday is about regal processions, festive adornments, and praise-worthy songs. In fact, we will do some of that today. The problem though with Christ the King Sunday is not that Jesus is our King. The problem is what kind of king Jesus is.

We have seen evidence of what kind of king Jesus is. Most famously would be the Palm Sunday procession. Jesus does not ride into Jerusalem on horseback with a sword and an army. No, he rides into town on a borrowed donkey, accompanied by a little crowd – nothing newsworthy really. There are other clues too. There is that time when the Samaritans refuse housing to Jesus and his disciples. The disciples ask, “Lord, do you want us to command fire to come down from heaven and consume them?”[i] But Jesus just rebukes the disciples and keeps on going. Even when Jesus knows Judas is going to betray him, he does not stop Judas. Instead of stopping Judas or outing Judas, Jesus quietly lets Judas leave to betray him.

So we should not be surprised today at the interaction between Pilate and Jesus and why this passage, of all passages, should be selected for Christ the King Sunday. Pilate is perplexed by this man who is being labeled (or more accurately, is being accused of having claimed to be) the king of the Jews. So Pilate asks repeatedly whether Jesus is indeed the king of the Jews. Jesus mockingly explains that if he were a traditional king, his people would be fighting to save him – which they are decidedly not doing. Jesus cryptically further explains that his kingship does not look like kingship in the traditional sense – and in fact, his version of kingship is the only kind of kingship that can save anyone. Violence, retaliation, and revenge will not work.[ii] A battle of wills will not win control. The only thing that will win is sacrifice, selflessness, and ceding. Jesus will not overcome the evil of the world by matching wills with rulers like Pilate. Jesus will only overcome by allowing himself to be overcome. When we really think about Jesus’ kingship, his kingship is yet another bizarre thing about our faith. Who pins their faith on a weak, non-violent, forgiving man?

Given the multiple terrorist attacks we have witnessed over the past week, the irony of Christ the King Sunday is not lost on me. Just this past week, at Lunch Bunch, we were discussing the challenges of engaging in war to stop terrorism verses isolationism. The discussion we had was the same discussion that hundreds of theologians have had for centuries. I have even witnessed top scholars debate the ethics of intervention versus non-violence. We watch Jesus turn the other cheek – in fact, Jesus tells us to turn the other cheek, give away our tunics, go a second mile, give to borrowers, and love our enemies.[iii] But we watched what happened in World War II when we stayed out of the war as long as possible – a genocide happened. And we have seen what sanctions do in foreign countries – though they are non-violent, the brunt of the restrictions hit the poorest of the country. And yet, we are also only one country. We cannot possibly fight every force of evil, have troops in every country, and wage war every time evil emerges.

This is one of those times when I would love to say, “It’s a mystery!” We say that phrase because the answer is beyond our knowing – or because we just do not know the answer. Any kind of guessing about “What Would Jesus Do,” is not likely to get us very far. We know that Jesus does not fight Pilate today, and has no intention of answering evil for evil. But we also know that Jesus is wholly other – the Messiah, the Savior, the sacrifice for our sins. His death is different from our deaths, and the kingdom he brings is both already and not yet.

Despite the fact that I cannot give you answers about what we should do about ISIS, about terrorism, or about violence, what I can tell you is that the ambiguity of Jesus’ identity as Christ the King is actually good news today. Now I know ambiguity does not sound like a gift. But in this instance, I believe ambiguity is where we can put our faith today. Ambiguity is a gift today because ambiguity makes us uncomfortable. Because we do not have definitive answers, we are forced to stay in prayer and keep discerning God’s will in this chaotic world. Because we do not have a king who answers violence for violence (which is quite frankly, a very easy black-and-white formula to replicate), we are forced to contemplate our faith in light of the world. Because we follow Christ the King, we do not get to say, “It’s a mystery,” as an excuse not to wrestle.

As I think about the conversations I have had with David and William, with our Thursday Bible Study Group, and even the conversation I would have with A.J. Jacobs, I realize ambiguity is the most honest, vulnerable, real way we can start any conversation about faith and Jesus Christ. And if we ever want a young person, a non-believer, or even someone wise beyond their years to trust that they can have an authentic, meaningful conversation with us about faith, then we have to be willing to step into the ambiguity of faith. One of Jacobs’ advisors talks about the “glory of following things we can’t explain.”[iv] That is what Christ the King offers us today – the opportunity to follow things we cannot always explain. Jesus invites us share our ponderings and struggles with knowing this king who is sometimes counterintuitive. He invites us to relinquish our angst about the ambiguity, and instead to celebrate the King of ambiguity. Amen.

Today we are surrounded by some powerful women. Many of you do not know Charlotte and Piper, who we are baptizing today, but they came into the world fighting. While they were in the womb, their lives were threatened. Doctors were able to operate in the womb at twenty-one weeks to ensure their survival. Despite that help, they were born early and very tiny, but amazingly, had to have very little medical support. Once they gained weight, they were able to come home and enjoy a healthy infancy. My guess is that the strength these two children of God harnessed is what has pulled them through – a strength that their parents might regret when they hit their teenage years!

When we baptize Charlotte and Piper, we will baptize them into a communion full of strong saints – women who have paved the road before them, who have shown great faithfulness and strength, and who will serve as mentors and guides in their earthly pilgrimage. We meet a couple of those women today. First we meet Jairus’ daughter through her father. Now, we might not think of her as a strong woman, since she is near death, but this young woman was powerful nonetheless. She evokes such devotion in her father that he, a synagogue leader, is willing to bow down to the controversial Jesus and beg for healing for his dying daughter. Jairus’ love for this powerful young woman made him willing to cross boundaries, to show vulnerability, and put great faith in Jesus. We also know that Jairus’ daughter is twelve, about the age that women start menstruating, making them capable of producing life – one of the most powerful gifts of nature. Though she is at death’s door, her power as a woman and as an individual bring people like Jesus to her, so that she might be restored to wholeness of life.

Of course, we also meet another strong woman today. By all accounts, this woman should not have been strong. In those days, menstruation alone meant that women had to be separated from the community for a period of time for ritual impurity. But to have been bleeding for twelve years means that this woman has been ostracized from others for as long as Jairus’ daughter has been alive. Furthermore, she spent all her money trying to obtain healing from doctors. Her poverty and her impurity make her a double outcast.[i] But this woman will not quit. She boldly steps into a crowd (likely touching many people that she ritually should not) and she grabs on to Jesus’ clothing, knowing that simply by touching Jesus she can be healed. She does not ask Jesus to heal her or mildly whisper among the crowds, “Excuse me Jesus, could you please heal me?” No, she takes matters into her own hands, and though Jesus demands to speak with her, her own determination and faith make her whole.

In many ways, the baptism that we witness today is a same expression of strength and faith. When we are baptized, we (or in the case of infants our parents and godparents) boldly claim the life of faith. We renounce the forces of evil and we rejoice in the goodness of God. We promise to live our life seeking and serving Christ, honoring dignity in others, and sharing Christ in the world. This action is not a meek or mild one. This action is an action of boldness – one in which we stand before the waters of baptism, and stake our claim in resurrection life.

Now, here’s the good news: even though we are surrounded by powerful women today and we are doing and saying powerful things, we do not always have to be strong. All the women we honor today are strong – but they have moments of weakness too.[ii] I am sure over the course of twelve years, the hemorrhaging woman has doubts. As bold as she is today, I am sure there are moments when she fears – maybe even that day – whether she could really reach out and claim Jesus’ power as her own. And as Jairus’ daughter feels the life fade from her, I am sure she doubts. I am sure she wonders whether she will ever be able to claim the life-force that is budding inside of her or to live a long life honoring her parents. And though Charlotte and Piper have been warriors thus far in life, they will both have their own doubts and weaknesses. In fact, that is why we as a congregation today promise that we will do all in our power to support them in their life in Christ. That is why her parents and godparents promise by their prayers and witness to help them grow into the full stature of Christ. That is the good news today. For all the moments of strength that we honor in one another, we also honor the doubts, fears, and weaknesses. God is with us then too, and gives us the community of faith to keep us stable until we can be strong witnesses again. Amen.